


Food for Thought

by sabs_cat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Food, M/M, Misunderstandings, silly men are silly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabs_cat/pseuds/sabs_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by giiimmmllliii and meg_thilbo's Tumblr post "Bilbo and Thorin as next door neighbors who keep getting each other’s food deliveries by accident"<br/>Bilbo couldn't believe what he'd been delivered. Who on earth thought Ready Meals were a good idea? More importantly, where was his vegetables?<br/>Thorin really just wants his food</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misunderstandings (Being Awkward is an Integral Part of Being British)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meg_Thilbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg_Thilbo/gifts).



The problem with apartments is that they are not usually very creatively named. Why would they be? It’s much easier to find 6a than ‘The Rainbow Apartment Near The Top But Not Quite At It.’  
Anyway, I digress; Apartments usually have quite boring, unordinary names. The ones in our story certainly do not differ. 13b and 13d are the ones in question. They were fairly similar, same coloured doors, same brass coloured doorknobs, and annoyingly similar doormats. This shouldn’t really be a problem, as such things as door numbers exist. However, the whole floor had had their door numbers stolen, as of last Friday.  
  
I never said it was a nice block of flats.  
  
Both the occupants of the apartments also had horrendously bad handwriting. It was bad enough to make English teachers worldwide weep in shame, and for doctors to weep in envy. Well maybe not that bad. Still, it was near unintelligible.  
Which I suppose is why you really can’t blame the delivery man.  
  
Bard worked at Esgaroth Grocers, a small independent shop that mostly survived on kids spending pocket money in the sweet aisle, and Saturday night alcohol sales. There was also maybe hundred odd customers that bought their weekly shop from them. The current owner, Mr Aster had decided that the best way to increase sales was to offer home delivery. Everyone else was doing it, and they “Had to keep up with the market”, despite being told every other week that the values of the shop were “Good old fashioned service”. Anyway, surprisingly it worked, and all should’ve gone smoothly, but for one thing. Alfrid, the manager, had broken their one work computer. He’d come in still slightly drunk from the previous night, tried to turn it on, and ended up sticking his foot through the screen. Mr Aster was too cheap to buy another.  
“Use pencil and paper!” He’d said “That’s how we did it when I was a lad, you young’uns use technology too much.”  
He’d then gone off to play CandyCrush on his iPhone, and Bard wondered if he knew what irony was.  
  
The shop staff were stuck to asking the customers to write down their addresses with the food they wanted delivered. Both 13b and 13d had taken up the service. And, as mentioned before, they both had awful handwriting. Handwriting so bad, Bard couldn’t tell which was 13b or 13d’s order, even if he had already figured out which doors were theirs. Probably. Bard looked at the note. He looked at the doors. He looked at the note again.  
“Fuck it” He thought, and knocked on the closest door. 

…  
Bilbo Baggins was not sociable by any stretch of the imagination. It wasn’t that he hated people, it was more a dislike of talking to every living being that passed your way, and of being forced to endure every bit of mundane gossip that the village had to offer, from “Oh yes, Missus Bolger’s been laid up in bed for a week, had a nasty fall,” to “Did you hear about young Jimmy and our Sue? They’re already having their fourth!”.  
  
I suppose this was why it surprised no one, when after Mr and Mrs Baggins’ deaths, the young Mr Baggins rented out their sumptuous bungalow, and moved off to Birmingham.  
Still, it didn’t stop them gossiping about it for a week.  
It was this lack of sociability that had Bilbo quickly signing the form given to him by the delivery man, thrusting it back, snatching the box of vegetables up, and shutting the door quickly. He placed the package on the hallway table, thinking how nice it was that some things still came in boxes, not nasty plastic bags. He fished out a pair of scissors to start opening it, when the sound of gushing water met his ears. It was only then that he realised he’d left the tap on in the sink, and that it was probably overflowing by now, so cursing he trotted off to deal with it. Then came a cup of tea to calm his nerves, and it was only after that Bilbo opened the cardboard box, supposedly filled with his lovey, lovey vegetables. Maybe he’d have a casserole tonight, or a nice risotto, if there was enough blue cheese. It was only then that he realised to his horror, what he had been left with.  
Pre-packedged meals.  
Microwave food.  
Ready made.  
If he had been a lesser man, he might’ve given out a little scream of horror, but he was a Baggins, and Baggins were calm, dignified…  
He sighed instead. Bloody typical. Bilbo picked up his rapidly cooling tea, and went over to the phone, and began to dial the number of Esgaroth’s grocers.  
“If you want anything done in this country you’ve got to complain till you’re blue in the mouth,” He muttered just as the line began to ring.  
  
…  
Thorin Durin was patient about most things in his life. His nephew’s antics, traffic delays, rude people in the street. He could all deal with that. However, when it came to food, or more specifically his food, then he became very serious.  
He couldn’t cook, but wasn’t overly concerned with that fact as he knew many good inexpensive eateries around the city, independent takeaways, and gastro pubs. When he found out one of his favourites, The Half Full Cup, was going to start selling ready meals, he almost did a jump for joy. Almost.  
It took him some time, but he managed to track down a small supermarket that had them in stock, and promptly ordered a week’s worth, for next day delivery. So when he opened the box, and found a bundle of celery staring him in the face, he wasn’t best pleased to say the least.  
  
He hated celery.  
  
…  
Bilbo had waited for the phone to be picked up, then had waited a further ten minutes for the manager to get on the line, by which time he was a small steaming mass of simmering fury.  
“Hello, what seems to be the problem, Mr,” There was a rustle of papers from down the line “Boggins-”  
“Baggins.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“That’s my name, Baggins, not Boggins.”  
“Ah, well I do apologise, I must’ve misread your handwriting,” The oily voice on the end of the line answered, sounding completely insincere. “Anyway, what seems to be the problem?”  
“I’ve received the wrong delivery, I was supposed to get some vegetables, eggs, and I think milk? Either way, I got a box full of ready meals.” Bilbo fought very hard to keep the venom out of his voice but didn’t quite manage it.  
“Ah, I must apologise about that, our delivery man is particularly incompetent. If I can just…” Again, Bilbo could hear a rustling of papers.  
“Ah, here it is. What number did you say you lived at Mr Boggins?”  
“It’s Baggins, I didn’t and, Blue Stone Apartments, 13b.” He answered, wondering how stupid someone could be and get the position of manager.  
“Right, the only other delivery to that floor, was to 13d. I’m afraid you’ll have to sort it out yourself Mr Boggins, Goodbye.” The line cut dead before Bilbo could say anything else.  
Well.  
Fuck.  
  
...  
Thorin had given up trying to reach the grocers, and took a shower in the meantime. It had been very relaxing, especially as he had spent a fair bit of time thinking out ways to avenge the loss of his food. He’d just got out, and had started toweling off his hair (well there was rather a lot of it), when a knock came from the door, just one. It sounded polite, if knocks can sound polite.  
No one was coming over today, the post arrived earlier, and Dis always phoned ahead if she needed to drop the boys off quickly. “Ah.” Thought Thorin. “Delivery man,” Wrapping a towel around his waist, he grabbed the box of offending veg, and walked quickly to the door, opened it.  
Outside was a short man, maybe a foot shorter, in a green polo, holding a box identical to the one in his arms, looking a little scared, though that wasn’t usual considering Thorin’s height of 6’4.  
  
He was sort of cute, in a folded way, with very clear eyes. The man looked directly at Thorin. He was suddenly very aware that he was only wearing a towel, and felt a blush rising but fought it down moulding his features into a poker face. He’d always had an excellent poker face.  
“So,” he said, staring down at the brown haired man on the door mat in front of him, as majestically as he could in a towel. “This is the grocer.”  
  
…  
Bilbo had never known he had such god damn hot neighbours. Come to think of it he had thought the tenant in 13d was a little old lady (which would explain the ready meals), and had expected that when he opened the door, but was greeted with a lot of wet skin and not much else, plus long hair, and a beard which were always thing he liked men.  
And that man was … phwar. That was the noise he made internally, phwar.  
Just looking at him made him want to drool, even if the man was glaring at him.  
Right up until the point where he opened his mouth.  
“So,” He said and his voice sounded like warm caramel on velvet. (A small part of Bilbo was wondering how you could clean that, and what a waste of caramel it would be)  
“This is the grocer.” The man said, the disdain evident in his voice. Bilbo snapped out of his gawping.  
“Excuse me, but I happen to be the person who got given these groceries of yours. I believe you have mine?” He asked gesturing to the box under the other man’s arm. He nodded.  
“Good, now we can just swap our boxes and be on our merry way, no need for any fuss or bother, is that all right with you?” The brunet snapped out, sounding harsher than he intended. Well, he felt like he’d just been insulted. Even if he wasn’t sure how he word grocer was an insult. It was probably in the pronunciation.  
“You actually managed to get hold of the grocers then?” the taller man asked at length, holding out the box. He still sounded surly. Some water trickled down his chest. Bilbo tried very hard not to watch it.  
“Yes, it took bloody forever though.” Bilbo replied, relaxing a little. He took the box, and peered inside it. “All in order then. Um,” As quickly as the atmosphere had become relaxed, it had become awkward again. “I’ll er, get going. I hope this doesn’t happen again.” Bilbo managed to stammer out, thinking what an utter tit he must’ve looked like to the other man, even if he was rude.  
The long haired man nodded again. They stood, just looking at each other.  
“Um… Goodbye.” The man in the doorway said, not moving an inch.  
“Ah! Oh yes… um well, goodbye…” Bilbo replied awkwardly, and started to walk back to his door. Before he entered the apartment, he turned to thee long haired man and called out “I hope this doesn’t happen again!”  
  
It did.


	2. The Awkwardness Prevails!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkwardness prevails. Thorin is dorky. Dis is awesome. Warning, no glitter was harmed in the making of this chapter.

…  
Of course it happened again. There wouldn’t be a story otherwise. Anyway the second time they exchanged boxes awkwardly. The fifth time they learnt each other’s names. The sixth time Bilbo actually worked up the courage to ask Thorin about his choice of food.  
  
(It wasn’t that he was scared, it was more he was embarrassed about his reaction the first time. Alas, such is the plight of the British.)  
“So er, what is that like then?” the shorter man had so eloquently said that morning, pointing at the box in the taller’s arms. They’d been standing out on the communal landing, post-delivery exchange taking place.  
  
“Sorry?” The black haired man asked, furrowing his brow ever so slightly (Which on Thorin only meant furrowing his brow even more.) He’d seemed surprised by the question, Bilbo thought, like he hadn’t expected it. (Well he hadn’t. They’d only exchanged groceries and pleasantries so far. He wasn’t complaining though.)  
  
“Your meals, the microwaveable stuff, what are Bombur’s Beautifully Baked Bacon Broccoli and Brie Quiches like then? Are they, uh, any good?” The brown haired man, continued carefully reading off the label. There was a small part of Bilbo that was dying inside from asking about a microwave meal of all things, but it was squashed by the considerably larger part that was mostly interested in getting more conversation out of Thorin. After his initial rudeness the man had apologized profusely, but other than that he’d been a dry well of information. Not that Bilbo didn’t mind privacy, it was what he’d moved to Birmingham for, he just didn’t want to be private with this person.  
  
(Did I mention Bilbo is finicky?)  
  
(Well he is)  
“Yes, they’re good. Very good.” Thorin said nodding, face grim as always. He did mostly look like he was scowling Bilbo had come to conclude. It appeared to be his default expression, although they had only met so far whilst exchanging mis-delivered food, which the brown haired man supposed was a good enough reason to be scowling.  
  
“Have you been to The Half Full Cup?” The question was blurted out suddenly, and it hung uncertain in the air.  
  
“The Half what now?” Bilbo replied curiously.  
  
“The Half Full Cup, it’s a Gastro pub. The owners went into catering as well, and these are the meals they make.”  
  
“No, I can’t say that I have.”  
  
“Well they’re good. Very good in fact. Would you like me to show you it?” Thorin’s tone was the same as before, but underneath his beard, a slight blush was staining his skin. Of course, the horrible yellow lighting of the landing made it impossible for Bilbo to see that.  
  
“Well, yes, um. What I mean to say is that would be lovely, just lovely. Um, when are you free?” Bilbo asked, words tripping over his tongue in an effort to free themselves.  
“Next Thursday.” Was the gravelly reply.  
“Oh, that’s great, brilliant, I’d nothing planned, I’ll meet you here at seven thirty, is that okay?”  
Thorin nodded.  
  
“So I’ll er, se you then?” Bilbo asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. It’d been a nervous tick he’d developed. (He rather fancied if he was in the habit of wearing suspenders, he’d thumb them whilst rocking back and forth.)  
Thorin nodded again, black locks falling over his shoulders as he did.  
“So that’s settled then? I’ll, um, be seeing you!” Bilbo called, as he walked back to his own flat, box under arm.  
  
As soon as he got in he put the groceries down, and flumped into a chair.  
  
Jesus.  
  
Did he just get asked out on a date?  
  
…  
"You've got a date? Really?" Dis' voice was incredulous as the kettle shrieked. The morning light was streaming in through the high apartment window. It was one of the reasons Thorin had bought this place. Architects need good light to work in. She poured the boiling water out into the mugs ready and waiting on the counter top.  
  
"It's not like that," Thorin protested from where he was leaning against the doorframe. It wasn't much use though, he knew that. His sister was a force of her own. Not that many people guessed. Dis was short and deceptively chubby with a smile that hid a shit eating grin and an acid tongue.  
  
“Uh huh? It’s really not like that?  
"It's not like that, really. Bilbo was just interested in where the food was from."  
  
Probably.  
  
Maybe.  
  
(He hoped not.)  
  
"Bilbo eh? First name terms now?" Dis cackled as she handed him the steaming mug. He blew on the tea, and staunchly ignored his sister. She knew him better than anyone else, a side effect of sharing a room for about ten years. Dis' nickname for him was teacake. Hard on the outside, but squishy goo in the middle.  
  
"Ignoring me won't help you know." She said, pulling down an old Quality Street tin, filled with Rich Tea biscuits. It really wouldn't. Experience told him that. She popped off the lid, put two in her mouth, and offered the tin to Thorin. He declined. Nerves were already eating at his appitite.  
  
“So what’s he like?” She said around a mouthful of biscuit, plopping down on the battered kitchen chair. It was an old wooden chair with a yellow seat that had belonged to his gran. Thorin slumped into the other seat and drank the tea. What was Bilbo like? They’d only seen each other a handful of times, and that had mostly been coloured by groceries, or lack of. He’d not seen his neighbour before that, and had only heard that the person living at 13b was dull and rude, thanks to Mrs Sackville-baggins. She moaned and gossiped about everything and anything though, so it probably wasn’t that true. Except maybe the rude part. (Well the man had snapped at him. Although that was probably Thorin’s own fault.  
  
What was Bilbo like?  
  
“He’s…cute.” Thorin at length finally decided on, and then took a long sip of tea.  
  
“Cute! That’s it!? I need details Thorin!” His sister wailed from the other side of the table, gesticulating wildly, and almost sloshing her tea on the tiled kitchen floor. “How am I supposed to bug you about your love life if you won’t tell me anything about them!”  
  
“You don’t have to get involved in my affairs.” The black haired man said grouchily, drinking his tea again.  
  
“It’s my sisterly duty!”  
  
“What, to be nosy?”  
  
“It’s not being nosy! I’m looking out for you, like all big sisters should.”  
  
“I’m the older child.”  
  
“I’m the more mature sibling. Remind me, who was the one who egged our neighbours house at Halloween, and was stupid enough to get caught doing it?”  
  
“That was different.”  
  
“Different my ars-“  
  
Fili and Kili suddenly burst in from the living room, a whirlwind of stickiness, brandishing tamborims, and the beaters, beating out an off-beat staccato rhythm, and screaming out “SAMBA!” every fourth beat.  
  
“Mum, Mum, Mum, do you like our song?” Fili shouted.  
  
“Samba!” Kili added helpfully.  
  
Perhaps Thorin shouldn’t’ve agreed to watch them whilst Dis taught Samba.  
  
She ran two classes, one for children and one for adults. The adult class were practising for a performance, so Dis was running extra sessions for them. Unable to get any childcare at a reasonable price at such short notice, she enlisted the help of her brother. Thorin had agreed. Unfortuntly that also happened to land on the day he’d agreed with Bilbo. Thorin hadn’t actually expected Bilbo to accept, so had been flustered when giving an idea of what time he was free. Dis couldn’t cancel on the class, not when they’d got this far.  
  
“Oh gosh, look at the time!” Dis exclaimed. She hurriedly poured her cooling tea down the sink, and grabbed another biscuit from the tin, and shoved the whole thing in her mouth. She grabbed her bag, pulled her coat on, kissed Fili and Kili goodbye, and left, like a small rampaging tornado of energy.  
Well, there was no going back now. 

  


…  
There was glitter, and vomit, and snot in his hair.  
Thorin couldn’t blame Kili. He really couldn’t. It had been his own idea that they make posters for Dis’ samba thing. It’d seemed like the perfect Uncle-Nephew bonding experience.  
It had actually been going pretty well, until Fili decided to throw some glitter at Kili. Kili, who had had his mouth open, inevitably to yell something (Did children ever learn to speak quietly? Thorin thought not) and had inhaled the glitter. And then managed to sneeze, and vomit it out simultaneously.  
  
It had been both amazing and disgusting, in a remote sort of way. But mostly disgusting.  
  
So Kili had then taken an inpromptue bath in the sink after having a good cry about everything being reassured that he wasn’t going to die. Then they had both said they were hungry, and needed to be fed now, and ‘No Uncle Thorin we don’t eat pasta, or bangers and mash, or curry, we only eat pizza.’  
Fili had then decided that the only way to eat pizza was in the living room, in their pyjamas, watching ‘You’ve been Framed!’.  
It didn’t sound all that bad, but Thorin hadn’t managed to change his clothes, or wash his hair in any part of this. And he definitely couldn’t leave the boys alone.  
  
“Here we have half a bee called Eric…” The TV presenter screeched at the nation, when there was a rattle from the keys in the front door, and “I’m back!” was yelled. Thorin suppressed a sigh of relief. Dis was finally back. She trotted into the living room, wrestling her keys back into her purse.  
  
“Sorry I’m late the traffic was awful-“The black haired woman looked up, bemusement written in her face. “Shouldn’t you be ready?”  
  
“No, I’ve got another hour-“The words died in his throat. It was seven already. “Crap.”  
Dis started pushing him towards the bathroom. “You go shower quickly, I’ll get tidy this place up a bit, and get the boys out, is that sick in your hair?” She suddenly demanded, grabbing the offending strand. Her brother grabbed it back.  
  
“Don’t ask.” He said before closing the door.  
…  
It took Thorin ten minutes to shower all the gunk out of his hair, five minutes to dry off, and another ten getting dressed, plus grabbing his wallet, phone and keys. His hair was still damp, as he pulled a jacket on over the t-shirt he wore.  
  
“Here,” Dis said from behind him. She stuffed something in one of the jackets pockets. Thorin pulled it out. It was a condom with a smiley face drawn on it.  
  
“It’s not a date!” He near yelled at her, but there wasn’t much heat in his voice.  
  
“You never know…” She replied,a grin plastered all over her face.  
  
“Shut up.” Thorin said, a light blush dusting the tops of his cheekbones. Dis punched him playfully on the arm.  
  
“Come on!” She cried “You look great! Even if this isn’t a date,” She said, disbelief evident in her voice. “You look great! By the end of the night, he’ll be wishing it was one.”  
  
“I’m going to go now.” Thorin announced, ignoring his sister, opening and stepping through the front door.  
  
“Don’t get a STD!” She called cheerfully from behind him, the slamming the door.  
  
“Ah, ready to go then?” Asked a voice from behind him. (Predictably) It was Bilbo Baggins. The sight of the smaller man somehow made Thorin tongue tied. He put it down to Dis (Ignoring the fluttering in his chest.)  
  
“Yes.” Was the simple reply.  
  
“Well, allons-y then!” Bilbo said, taking the lead, and both men started to walk down the many flights of stairs together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Samba? I learnt how to play samba music in school. It was pretty fun actually. We studied Djembe drumming, Ragtime and Blues music, Samba, Gamelan, and some medieval stuff. It was still a shite school though.  
> Anyone wanna hit me up on Tumblr, I’m there under the same name!  
> Does anyone know any learning Latin resources? Specifically OCR introduction to Latin resources?  
> Unbeated. I am looking for a beta actually.  
> Fun fact, as I was walking up to my history lesson, some other people in my class were walking across from me. Together they were singing something like this as they were walking up;  
> “Chinos down low!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Hat on backwards!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Parents think I’m a disgrace!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Got no job!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Got no money!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Spent it all on Nandos!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Can’t pay my rent!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Living in a box!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> “Camping on the M4!”  
> “Cheeky Nandos!”  
> And so forth. I have no real reason for telling you this, I thought someone might like to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. My first foray into the Hobbit fandom.  
> All criticism is welcomed.  
> Virtual cookies to the people that spot the Monty Python reference!  
> All kudos for the idea go to giiimmmllliii and meg_thilbo on Tumblr


End file.
